Promises to Keep
by The DayDreaming
Summary: "Heroes are real, and I think even you can be one, too." Jamie smiles. "Even if you are a hobo." / In which everyone is a superhero except Jack Frost because he has issues like usual. xXx AU, pairings undecided. Short installments.
1. Disbelieve

**Promises to Keep**

Short thing I'm writing to run down my high on Rise of the Guardians. Will be short installments. Used a prompt generator and received, "If I were a superhero, I would be…." Can't say it's my best work, but please enjoy.

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**1. disbelieve**

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"_There's no such thing as heroes," Jack once told Jamie._

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Their first meeting comes as a sprawl across ice-slick pavement and a handful of ruined comic books. Jamie's just spent three weeks' worth of allowance at the bookstore, only to watch the maturation of fine ink and print turn to papier-mâché in the slush.

He's caught between the silent pooling of tears and a quick-burning outrage when the stranger he bumps into bends down and picks up the ruined books, pale fingers smearing red and bending the covers.

"Sorry, I didn't see you coming," the hand says, before Jamie looks up and realizes it's coming from a boy as pale as freshly fallen snow. He's got the bluest eyes Jamie has ever seen, clear and bright. He gapes for a second before finally remembering that his issue of "Tooth Fairy vs. the Mouse Thief" is dissolving into a pile of pulp under his left hand.

"Aw jeez," Jamie sighs. It comes out lighter than he's really feeling, a soft lilt on quiet wind.

"Sorry," the other boy says again. His stunning eyes flick back and forth across the several magazines in his hand, contemplating their dampened covers. "Really into superheroes, huh?"

"Yeah!"

Jamie shows the soggy Tooth Fairy comic to the stranger, feeling the pages wilt in his hand. "They're really amazing! I always watch when they're on, and I own all their comic books and action figures and I'm going to have a superhero party for my birthday!"

The stranger chuckles, though it seems mirthless as he stares into the dull eyes of the Tooth Fairy staring excitedly into some unseen camera as she wallops a giant mouse. "Can't say I'm that into them myself, actually. A bit too goody two-shoes for my tastes. No fun at all."

Jamie almost lets the comic book drop from his hand. Someone who didn't like the supers? He's never heard of anyone like that!

"You have to come to my house," Jamie says, grasping onto the frost-slicked sleeve of the other boy's hoodie. "You'll see! I'll show you my whole collection!"

"Ahaha…yeah, no." The boy tugs his sleeve away and presents the other scattered books to Jamie's expectant face. "No offense, kid, but it's just not my thing. And aren't you a little too happy to be letting a stranger into your house?"

"What?" Jamie grabs the stack without thinking, thrusting them under his arm to hold them while he gesticulates the exact amount of indignation he's feeling. "C'mon! You don't look like you own a white van or have candy or anything-" The other boy rolls his eyes and raises his staff (and just why does he have what looks like a crummy old Shepard's crook with him anyway?). "The supers are the coolest thing ever. They fight bad guys and save cats in trees and they help people!"

By the end of his outburst, Jamie is red-faced and starry-eyed. The other boy is tipping his staff back and forth, looking about as fascinated by the conversation as he would watching paint dry.

Jamie waits patiently for the stranger to concede, though he starts to doubt when the other just taps the staff gently to the ground and leans on it, a quiet smile on his face.

"You know, your face gets all red when you think about it. It must make you really happy." At Jamie's fervent nod, he continues. "Maybe there is something more to them that I'm not seeing. You obviously see it.

"But for me? Well…there's no such thing as heroes. Not when you're someone like me."

Jamie gets this disappointed look on his face, somewhere between confusion and having his heart rent. The other boy smiles wider before tapping the boy's nose with a finger colder than ice and then walks away.

Jamie is quiet as he thinks about how incredibly lonely that boy looks, with a ragged hoodie and ragged pants and a ragged smile while he admits that he can't believe in someone saving him. The frost lacing the covers of his soaked comic books goes unnoticed under his arm.

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_Any good? I have the next part written, and it should be posted soon. Thanks for reading! If anyone can figure out where the title is from, please tell me. Fairly famous poem, y'know! With absolutely no bearing on the plot. XD_


	2. Heroes are Real

**Promises to Keep**

Thanks so much for reading! I wasn't sure about the response I'd get, but you guys seem to like it just fine. :) Thanks to all who reviewed.

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**2. heroes are real**

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_The second time Jamie meets Jack, he clings to him like white on rice._

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"I met a guy today, mom!"

"Did you now?"

"Haha, yeah! Well, he kinda tripped me! He was just sitting on the ground with his legs out. My comics went everywhere!"

"Oh? But you're okay, right? Nothing hurts too much?"

"Pfft, no! Well, maybe my comics. They're all wrinkly now…but this guy was amazing! He was walking around without shoes on, and he had this staff-looking thing, and his hair was all white. He looked like snow!"

"I think I've seen him around…poor boy. Can't his mother get him some shoes?"

"Aw, mom! Who cares about shoes! This guy, he said—he said! He didn't! Believe! In heroes!"

"Well that's sad, isn't it?"

"Yeah…is it okay if I invite him over? I promise he won't hurt anything, he seems like a really good person!"

"Well…"

"Moooom!"

"Oh, alright. But you _have_ to clean your room tonight, young man. No buts. You don't invite company over to a dirty room."

"Mooooooooom!"

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He is a lost child, trapped in questions no one will answer.

He is a moon boy caught in lunar shadow.

He is a wisp disappearing under warm breath on cold winter mornings.

He is homeless, and unwanted, and without anyone to miss him, though maybe, once upon a time—

"Do you always sit on the ground?" Jamie asks, toeing carefully around the boy's legs as they stretch across the sidewalk. He's covered in snow with only the tips of his pale toes piercing the fluff of snowdrift cocooning his still form.

"Only when I can't steal park benches from other hobos." The boy flicks his eyes open and stares at Jamie, eyeing the blue vest and fluffy cap on his head.

"Pfft, so are you a hobo, too?" Jamie questions. He backs up to the brick wall behind him and slides down so that his shoulders rest even with the other boy's.

"That's really rude. You don't just go around asking if someone's a hobo. Thought your mom taught you better," the boy says, smirking while his shoulder gently taps Jamie's. His touch is like a cold breath creeping softly past thick cotton to rest comfortably atop his skin, not painful but noticeable in its deceptive cool.

Jamie just laughs. He feels like he's known this boy for all his life, yet he knows they've only ever met the one time before now. It's the flicker of snow, the creeping of frost, the winter sky in a gaze that promises adventure if only you'll just stay—

"So what's eating you?"

Jamie breaks from his daze, leaning back and clipping his head on the rough brickwork behind him. If his mother knew he was leaning against a wall that anyone could have done anything on, she'd skin him and serve him for dinner.

He smiles at the other boy, pulling out a tiny figure from his pocket. It's an overly muscled man, about four inches tall, with painted blue eyes and flimsy swords clenched in plastic, jointed hands.

"This—" Jamie holds the figure up to the boy's face. "Is North King! He's the most famous superhero right now. He uses these two cool swords, and has a sleigh with flying reindeer, just like Santa Clause! And he makes all of these great inventions! And when he beats bad guys and saves people, he leaves them all gifts and wraps the bad guys in Christmas lights!"

"That is really cheesy," the boy says as he takes the action figure and examines it more closely. It's so cheaply made that he can see where the paint on the red coat has smeared onto the black gloves.

"But that's his deal! His signature move. All cool superheroes have signatures. And costumes! And names, of course."

"Of course," the boy agrees half-heartedly, busy making the tiny figure punch itself in the face.

"And there are others just like him. Like Tooth Fairy, and Mr. Sandman! Oh, oh and Silverfoot!"

"Yeah yeah, and when things get real tough and a super villain shows up, they get together and beat stuff up," the boy mumbles. The action figure in his hands is attempting a poor rendition of the cancan. "That's what superheroes do, I guess."

"Well duh," Jamie says. "They keep everyone safe. They make sure that no one gets hurt real bad and that we won't get enslaved by all the bad supers and stuff."

The other boy stays silent at that, pursing his lips. He picks at the errant red smear, stops when he realizes he's rubbed right through to the green plastic beneath, and sighs.

"Tell me, uh…"

"Jamie!"

"Jamie. Tell me, Jamie. Do you…do you think that all supers who don't become superheroes…do you think they're bad?"

Jamie tilts his head in confusion. "Why wouldn't they use their powers for good? That's why they get them, right? You wouldn't like, use heat vision to make just bacon, right?"

"Well yeah, but…you ever wonder if the bad guys had a reason they weren't good guys? Or if maybe some people just aren't cut out to be heroes?"

The boy says it with such insecurity, such fragile wonder, that Jamie honestly sits back and thinks about it for a minute, rolling the question around on his tongue. All he'd ever known were superheroes and super villains. Supers didn't generally wander around on the streets, living everyday lives. Or did they? He wasn't sure. Could someone have superpowers and not use them for anything? Were they bad if they didn't use them for the greater good?

Jamie sighs. "I guess…well. I guess people can just have cool powers. I mean, as long as they don't hurt people and donate to charity every now and then, they can't be _evil_. I guess? I never really thought about it."

"Huh," the boy says, voice faint as it's stolen by the wind, a sudden gust that coats the pair in a fresh smattering of snowflakes.

"But then…I also think, that everyone can be a hero, even bad guys!" Jamie says, pumping his fist.

"Huh?" the boy intones incredulously, turning to the excited child at his shoulder.

"I think," Jamie says very seriously, holding the other boy's gaze. "That deep inside, there's a hero in everyone. Even if it doesn't show really well, there's gotta be a time where there's a choice between being normal, and being super. And that person chooses to be good.

"Heroes are real, and I think even you can be one, too." Jamie smiles. "Even if you are a hobo."

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_Hope this answers some of your questions, Nefarious Seraph 13! Would've answered in personal reply, but I figured this will suffice. XD Also thanks to SethBlackwolf and AntaresTheEighthPleiade for reviewing, and to everyone else who favorited or put this story on alert! Especially AntaresTheEighthPleiade for guessing the origin of the title correctly. ;) Maybe I can think of a prize for you. Maybe ask for a little scenario you want seen in this story? We'll see! Thanks for reading again, and hope it doesn't disappoint._


	3. Being an Outsider

**Promises to Keep**

Sorry for the late update! Got sidetracked with all sorts of Tumblr shenanigans. In this slightly longer chapter, gaze upon the amazing decline in quality as you watch me go from intensely interested to giving up hope. Live action!

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**3. being an outsider**

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_Jamie is the first person to ever warm something in cold, bitter, heartless Jack Frost._

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In Jamie's house, there is wood flooring and scented candles and pictures with smiling people in them. They punctuate tables and walls, coloring empty spaces with bright eyes and candle light. In the kitchen, shiny pots hang on silver hooks above a bowl of red apples, with wood cabinets standing sentinel over marble countertops. The living room has a buzzing TV set and a plethora of wires stuffed into a dusty little corner, and glass-top tables scattered with magazines on fashion and good housekeeping and, ugh, superheroes. Throw pillows flop along the worn couch and scatter onto the floor, and above a dark fireplace is a portrait of the Bennetts that almost reaches the ceiling.

All of these wonderful things he'd only ever seen through store windows, Jack now views as parts of a home. Real people live here, using these things and moving around them with practiced ease. He can see a dent in the wall where someone was too rough, and fingerprints smudging the candelabras. There are stains on the scatter rugs and little glass ornaments placed in disorganized lines along the shelves.

He sucks in a warm breath of air, spiced with pumpkin and lavender incense. Jamie looks on in bewilderment as the other boy putters around the house, examining the good silverware and tapping the old, cracked grandfather clock ticking in the hallway. He is a flurry of movement, head cocking in wonder and fingers opening and closing, as though warming in front of a fire.

"You act like you've never been in a house before," Jamie says, hanging his soggy vest on the coatrack, only to watch it slide and fall off. He contemplates putting it up, but shrugs and walks over to the pale boy picking at the leaves of a fake palm tree. The other boy just nods his head as he wanders off to kick at the throw pillows with his bare feet.

"Oh my gosh you really are a hobo!" Jamie shouts.

The other boy turns around, brandishing his staff at Jamie like an indignant finger. He trembles his lip, eyes squeezing close together. "Stop, you're hurting my hobo feelings."

Jamie doesn't know whether to take the quivering voice and smoldering pout seriously or laugh at the other's pathetic attempt at emotional turmoil. He snorts out a giggle before wandering into the kitchen, where the apples lay in the bowl, all red skin and tart aroma. He grabs two and hurriedly throws one at the pale boy, whom catches the fruit deftly.

"Let's go up to my room," Jamie calls through a juicy bite, wiping his mouth on his damp sleeve. He takes the stairs two at a time while the other boy follows at a more sedate pace, picking the store sticker off the top of the apple. "I've got all sorts of stuff up here. I'll show you all there is to know about superheroes."

"Uh, I don't really care about superheroes," the boy calls from behind. "That was kinda the entire premise of me not being interested in the first place."

Jamie stops and stares at the pale youth, older than him by at least a couple years, maybe more. "Everyone loves superheroes. You're just not trying hard enough, which is why you've come here to be educated on the many inti-intro-intaracacies of superherodom."

"You promised me there would be cake," the boy says blankly. "Where is the cake, because I certainly don't think I'll find some in your comic book shrine?"

Jamie releases a world-weary sigh, slumping against the banister. "Because Mr. Hobo, my _mom_ is gonna bring the cake home with dinner, okay? _Jeez_, kids."

He turns around to begin ascending the rest of the stairs when something wet and cold and distinctly snowball-like smashes the back of his head. His head is knocked forward a bit with the force of it as bits and pieces slither like speedy icebergs under his shirt collar.

"Did you—" he whirls around, ready to chuck the last half of his apple at his guest, only to observe the other looking disinterestedly at a portrait of his great grandmother hanging on the stairwell wall. "….throw…snowball?"

The boy perks his head up, quirking his thick brows in confusion. "You okay, Jamie?"

"Y-yeah," he says quietly, hand trailing across his neck against the rivulets of cold slush. "Just…thought of something, is all. Come on!"

He stomps the rest of the way up the stairs, listening for the light steps of the older boy behind him on the creaky wood. The snowball bothers him, but would the other really go through the trouble of making and holding onto a snowball until the opportune time to strike in Jamie's house? Unlikely. Still…something feels so off about the other boy.

Jamie opens the door to his bedroom quickly, revealing a den of relics. Shelves upon shelves stacked with memorabilia; dog-eared, well-thumbed comic books and action figures and Guardian bed sheets all rumpled with sleep movement. A toy plane hangs dusty from the ceiling, swinging lazily in the breeze from a cracked window. Papers litter the baby blue walls, almost solid in their numbers, depicting dozens of scenes of colorful, semi-recognizable blobs. Some have been formed from sloppy crayon strokes, while others shift into shaky pencil lines, shaded in with stubby colored pencils.

The boy stares around the cluttered room, smiling, flicking past piles of papers to old school projects and shoes shoved under the bed.

"This—" Jamie gestures needlessly to the two bookcases crammed into the corner. "—is all the evidence you need that superheroes are amazing."

"I always thought heroes weren't defined by how many comic books they had, but by uh…what's inside their creamy center?" the pale boy asks, wandering up to the first bookcase and tilting a figurine of Mr. Sandman to the side, gold glitter sticking slightly to his finger.

"Well, yeah, but c'mon. A thorough collection of all their heroic deeds can give you a good picture, right?" Jamie says, smiling as he pulls out a dusty issue, slightly yellowed with age. He shoves it into the other boy's hands. "Read this first! It's the first comic ever done for the Guardians. Before, North King, Silverfoot, Mr. Sandman, and Tooth Fairy all worked separately. But then Moonman, who was part of the League of Supers, told them to assemble together. And they did! And now they're the most amazing super team in the world!

"Even though there are other super teams, the Guardians are the best by far," Jamie exclaims, clutching onto the bookcase shelf in his excitement.

"Don't wet yourself, kid," the older boy mutters, flipping idly through the thin, aging pages. "Did they really say all this stuff? '_Time for your next dentist appointment?_' and then Tooth Fairy punches him and…oh, his teeth. '_We sure got the jump on him?_' Ugh, Silverfoot isn't anything like that. Too much of a jerk…"

"They're their signature lines, of course they say them!" Jamie says, grabbing for a foot-tall recreation of Tooth Fairy, fairly detailed down to the ridged plastic to represent feathers. He giddily presses a button on her back, eliciting a tinny, '_Time for your next dentist appointment!_' from the figurine's small speaker.

The boy eyes the figurine before returning his attention to the comic book in his hands. His face scrunches with each panel, halfway between disbelief and amusement.

"Well?" Jamie asks eventually, staring at the stranger in hope. "Are you convinced yet?"

"Not by a long shot," the pale boy says, flipping the book closed and handing it back to Jamie. He pauses at the lost look in the younger boy's face, the rosy glow from before dimming in disappointment. He hesitates briefly, glancing around the room, before heaving a sigh. "But…I guess…maybe…"

"You gotta read more!" Jamie shouts suddenly, eyes blazing to life. His small hands dart quickly, pulling out several comic books at once, their light coating of dusting lifting into the air with a voluminous puff. "Just one won't do it for someone like you!"

"Uh…?" The boy tries to move back as Jamie shoves the books forward, mouth working to try and voice some sort of protest or agreement into the one-sided conversation, only to be trumped by the wall and a laundry hamper filled with dirty clothes. He slides down into the hamper and is quickly assailed by the moldering copies of superhero lore. He takes them with a long-suffering glance to the heavens.

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_That afternoon was the longest and shortest that Jack could remember. It was the meanest and kindest anyone had ever been to him. It was the sweetest and most devastating._

_It built him up slowly, readying him for the fall. _

_And as Jack looked back, it was the softest his heart had ever felt, so thawed and raw. _

_He wanted to cry._

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Jamie and the boy spend hours sitting and reading. For every comic the boy reads, three more are shoved his way to read after. Page after inky page pass quickly through his fingers. He doesn't linger on the stories or words so much as the faces, the lines, the purpose.

The boy finds a wonder in how these comic artists portray superheroes. So sure in themselves, confident and witty, with such clear set goals. There is always a good, and always an evil.

He wants to point out these inconsistencies to Jamie, the bitter tang of life edging his throat; but something in Jamie's face keeps him from releasing his tide of ill-will. For every bad point in superheroes he can think of, Jamie can find something good. There is the innocence and wonder of a child in his eyes.

He swallows the stone, keeps it down, refuses to destroy something so fragile and small and whole.

The sound of Jamie's mother opening the door has the child running down the stairs, the other boy following warily behind. The woman weighed down with shopping bags and a leather briefcase smiles at them, her eyes lingering on bare feet and ratty clothes, and then flittering away like they'd seen nothing.

"Is this your friend, Jamie?" she asks, as though it isn't obvious.

"Yeah!" Jamie says, busy taking the grocery bags from her full arms and almost toppling over himself.

"Your name?" She tentatively holds her hand. "I'm Amy Bennett, Jamie's mother."

The boy stares at the hand, unsure. With a nervous swallow he grasps the hand, muttering, "Jack Frost, ma'am."

"Oh!" she replies, squeezing his hand lightly, before withdrawing and staring at her manicured fingers. "Your hands are as cold as death!"

Jack steps back and hides them in the pockets of his hoodie, trying to hold his ground. He thinks longingly of the staff he's left in Jamie's room, tucked safely against the side of a creaky bookcase.

Mrs. Bennett searches around in her suit jacket pockets, flapping to and fro like papers in the wind. Jack can see where Jamie gets his energy. With a triumphant cry she pulls a pair of gloves from her back pocket.

"Maybe these will help," she says, handing them to him and smiling as he slowly pulls the gloves over his pale hands. He flexes his fingers, unused to the bizarre feel of warm leather against his skin. "I better help Jamie. Go ahead and have a seat, Jack. I'm sure Jamie has tired you out."

Dinner is as awkward as can be expected. Jack sits quietly, pushing too-hot peas and chicken around his plate while Mr. Bennett stares stonily at him, eyes fixed on the faded blue of his hoodie, the seemingly constant dampness about his shoulders, the pale fingers tapping idly at the tabletop. Mrs. Bennett tries to diffuse the tension by talking about her day at the office and Jamie's upcoming exams. Sophie, Jamie's little sister, stares up at Jack with wide eyes between bites of mashed potato.

Throughout it all, Jamie is there. Jack can feel him at his shoulder, giving silent encouragement. Jack has never felt so useless in his life than at this moment, caught in the middle of a family, trespassing in their domain. It feels like grasping at smoke each time he tries to speak under the heavy gaze of Mr. Bennett, or the expectant questions Mrs. Bennett asks in blithe ignorance.

He has never felt so uncertain, so much like an outsider, than the moment he realizes that even when he's received what he's wanted all along—a family, a place at a table, warm food and dinner-talk—it all means nothing when he's merely a ghost playing house with things long dead and buried.

He slips away when Mr. Bennett takes Sophie to the bathroom to clean up after dinner and Mrs. Bennett and Jamie head into the kitchen to cut the cake.

Quick as the wind he pads up the stairs, wincing at the creaks in the old wood before rushing into Jamie's room, grabbing his staff, and making for the window. He unlatches it and pauses at the reflection of a silhouette in the frosted panes.

"Jamie," he breathes.

"I thought you were gonna stay for cake?" Jamie asks, closing the door behind him. "Mom thinks you're in the bathroom. You don't have to go home yet, right?"

"Jamie, I…can't."

"Well why not?" Jamie asks again, stepping closer. Jack can see in the dim light from the window that he looks upset, slightly betrayed. "Is it my dad? He doesn't mean it! He's just kinda all quiet and grunt-y after bad days at work. He doesn't hate you! And my mom likes you! And Sophie…why can't you stay…?" Jamie trails off.

"Because I don't know what to do. This is what normal families do, right? They sit and talk and have their own jokes, and they _smile_ at each other. But what am I…? What am I _doing_ here?" Jack grits his teeth, clenching his staff. He wants to break something, or cry, or scream. _It's not fair, it's not fair, it'snotfair._ "What's the point of being here when I obviously don't belong?"

"I don't know," Jamie says. "Why does it have to be so hard? I think you're just scared. Haven't you ever sat down with your family before?"

"Scared…?" Jack mutters. He can't think. It's too hot and his eyes itch. He can feel the wind calling for him.

"Jamie? Jack? Dessert's ready!" Mrs. Bennett's voice rallies distantly from the foot of the stairs.

Jack makes his decision. He shoves the window doors apart, climbing lithely onto the sill.

"So you're really gonna go? Just like that?"

"Yeah," Jack sighs. "Yeah. This…just isn't my thing."

"Like superheroes?" Jamie says, appearing beside him. "You've got a lot of problems."

Jack lets out a quick laugh, hard and fast. He almost tumbles off the icy windowsill from its suddenness, its completeness.

Before he makes the jump, Jamie slips something into his pocket, thick and heavy. "I'll see you later," he whispers.

Jack nods before jumping out, landing easily on his feet against the cold, snow-frosted ground. He gives a short wave before walking off into the night, staff resting easy in his hands and shoulders sagged with the weight of a thousand disappointments.

It's not until later, as Jamie rests in bed, mind wandering to far off places with the shouting of his parents' argument a static whisper through the wall, that he realizes Jack Frost had jumped from the second story of his house. But even as he thinks about it in alarm, some part of him knows, had even known from the start, that someone like Jack Frost could do it.

It's just the kind of person Jack seems to be; lonely, and fun, and amazing.

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Jack isn't sure what to make of Jamie's gifts to him. But he never does throw away Mrs. Bennett's leather gloves, or the action figure of North King with its ridiculous muscles and smeary blue eyes.

They are the first gifts he's ever received. The kindest, and the meanest, wrapped with all the fragile hope and wonder of a boy who still believes.

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_What a crappy ending! But I had to wrap it up. Getting writer's block so early in the game sucks. FORCE YOUR WAY! Thanks for the reviews, alerts, and favorites! Hope this chapter wasn't too much of a disappointment. _

_If you're wondering why half the chapter has Jack referred to as 'the boy,' it's because it's mainly from Jamie's POV, who never bothered to ask Jack's name, if we remember from earlier chapters. XD This chapter was more informational than anything, developing character and giving a bit of background info. Why is Jack characterized the way he is? Because I'm a terrible writer. No. Because Jack hasn't gotten to a point in his 'lifetime' where he's accepted his position. Very much still in a 'mourning' phase. This story is an AU, and the way Jack comes about is different. Telling would be spoiling, though. Thanks for reading, and hopefully reviewing if you enjoyed it!_


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